


On Black Marker Tattoos and Thunderstorms

by sixappleseeds



Series: The Evolution of Pynch [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixappleseeds/pseuds/sixappleseeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharpie ink smells funny. Adam's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Black Marker Tattoos and Thunderstorms

There was a fly crawling up Adam’s arm. He twitched.

“Hold still, Parrish.” 

No, not a fly. He lurched into consciousness. Monmouth. Sofa. Half-light. Storm? Storm. Breath on his neck? _What?_

Ronan’s hand suddenly gripped Adam’s shoulder. “Hold _still_ ,” he growled. Adam blinked, and registered the scent of permanent marker.

“What the hell are you doing?” He twisted around as Ronan sat back, teeth bared, marker in hand. 

“I was bored,” Ronan muttered. “You fell asleep. It’s _storming_ , for fuck’s sake. Gansey’s out, Noah’s in his Invisible Ghost Palace, and your arm looked too white. I’m making it better.”

Adam put the pieces of Ronan’s explanation together in his head, tried fitting them several different ways, and it still made no sense. “You’re tripping,” he said, sitting up. 

“I’m not,” Ronan hissed, uncharacteristically emphatic. “I’m not even drunk. I didn’t know you’d be here, but then the storm started and you were sleeping and...” 

Lightning flashed outside, and the whole cavernous room lit up. Adam guessed it was late afternoon according to clock-time, but the storm made it seem closer to dusk. He watched Ronan’s mouth flinch as thunder boomed. “Ronan,” Adam said, trying to keep his voice level. “How long have you been afraid of thunderstorms?” 

Ronan sprang off the sofa and began to pace. “I’m not afraid of storms,” he said, but his voice was low and dark. He had hunched in on himself, his shoulders rounded inside his tee. A sneer curled his lip when he caught Adam’s eye, and he turned away.

How had Adam not known this about Ronan? They had been friends for over a year, surely they’d been through thunderstorms before. Adam couldn’t remember any occasion when Ronan had behaved like this. Seeing him so unsettled was disconcerting.

Ronan still held the marker, though he was using his other hand to rub his head, back and forth, back and forth. Adam twisted again to look down at his arm. Ronan had drawn over most of it, black lines arching from his forearm up to the edge of his tee shirt sleeve. It reminded him of Ronan’s own tattoo, shapes within shapes, shifting and bending with the muscles under his skin. 

“Were you done?” he asked.

Ronan met his eyes. He’d raised a brow in typical-Ronan fashion, but it seemed to Adam he’d had to come from somewhere very far away to manage it. Adam gestured to his arm and repeated his question.

“No,” Ronan said. “You kept moving.”

What Adam was about to say felt dangerous for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. It was one thing when he hadn’t known, when he’d been an unwitting, passive recipient of Ronan’s artistic self-distraction mere minutes ago. To invite it openly was another thing altogether. Adam swallowed. Holding Ronan’s gaze, he said, “Well. Finish it then.” 

Ronan went very still. Against the rain pounding the windows, he cut a dramatic figure, uncapped marker in one hand, the other now clenched in a fist at his side. Adam proffered his arm in encouragement. “Come on man, this isn’t going to come off right away, is it? You got to make it look good.” He ignored his heartbeat, which was pounding too hard all of a sudden. Lightning flashed again outside. 

Ronan came over, stood over Adam. “Lie back the way you were,” Ronan said. Now Adam lifted a brow. “The angle’s better,” Ronan explained. 

Cautiously, as if a sudden movement might scare either of them off, Adam shifted so he once more leaned against the sofa arm. Ronan immediately sat down next to him, hips pressing into Adam’s, left arm braced on the cushion behind Adam’s back. Adam closed his eyes. He felt Ronan’s breath sigh across his neck, and then felt the tip of the marker trace over his skin. 

“That tickles,” he murmured. Ronan ignored him. If Adam kept his eyes closed, this wouldn’t be awkward. He hoped Ronan couldn’t feel his heart pounding, hoped Ronan didn’t ask, because Adam wouldn’t know how to answer him. 

Thunder cracked like a gunshot, and both boys jumped. “Shit,” Ronan muttered. He shifted, pressing more firmly onto Adam’s torso, and shoved the sleeve of Adam’s shirt up around his shoulder. Adam could smell the marker, it was nearly overpowering, but under that he caught the scents of Ronan’s breath, whatever soap he used, and sweat. He could feel the felt tip of the marker, pressing softly now, now firmly, now in what felt like tiny hash marks across his skin. He sighed, and his breath seemed to go out, and out, and out. If Ronan was the collection of tense nerves and fraying synapses he seemed to be at the moment, Adam could be loose, and calm, and steady. Just as long as he ignored his heartbeat.

“It’s only when I’m alone,” Ronan murmured. His voice was very soft, and very close to Adam’s ear. It occurred to him that if Ronan had been doodling on his left arm, if his right ear was pressed into the sofa pillows, Adam wouldn’t’ve heard him. 

“What is?” 

“My...” Ronan stopped, hand still on Adam’s shoulder but marker point lifted. “With the storms. I’m okay as long as I’m not alone.” 

“Well,” Adam said. “Good thing I decided to take a nap in Monmouth’s air-co this afternoon.” 

Ronan huffed out a laugh; Adam could feel it across his cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “Good thing.” 

After several more minutes of trying to remain calm and not-ticklish, Adam asked, “You about done?” 

“Almost,” Ronan said. Adam opened his eyes, slanted a look at Ronan. He caught the edge of Ronan’s smile, a flash of teeth in the half-light. “Well,” Ronan said. “I could probably do this for a while. I don’t even know what I’m doing. But.” He sat back, cocked his head. “Looks pretty good, if I do say so myself.” 

Adam sat up too. His whole right side felt suddenly chilly. He told himself it was the marker’s ink drying. He craned around to peer down his arm. “Yep,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell this is supposed to be, but I guess I’m stuck with it for a while, aren’t I?”

Some of Ronan’s edges were back; he brandished one of his patented sneers. “Yep,” he agreed. They regarded one another for a moment. Adam had the peculiar sensation that those edges that so defined Ronan Lynch were more pretense than structural substance, albeit a pretense enforced by Ronan himself. He wondered, in the kind of flash-thought that takes no time to think initially and hours to mull over after, if he’d ever feel Ronan’s hips pressed into his again. Outside, the rain was slowing.

“I think the storm’s about over,” Adam said finally. “Wanna go to Nino’s?”

Now Ronan’s grin was all sharp hooks, like the black lines racing up Adam’s arm. “Sure, Parrish. Let’s go show off your new tattoo.”


End file.
